


Before the Dawn

by Kylenne



Series: Tales of the Illidari Compact [1]
Category: Warcraft III
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 09:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylenne/pseuds/Kylenne
Summary: On a sun-filled day in Dalaran, the life of Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider changed forever.





	Before the Dawn

For so long as he lived, Kael would remember that day vividly, and as much for the sunshine as for the clouds.

The entirety of Dalaran was on edge, back then. In truth, it had been ever since the rumors first surfaced of pestilence in the north country. Since Lordaeron’s fall, however, there had been a pall of grief and mourning draped upon the gleaming spires of the enchanted city like a funerary shroud. Everywhere one looked, people wore the garb of bereavement, somber black robes, veils, or armbands. Not a mage in Dalaran had been spared the loss of someone; friends, family, colleagues, lovers. For while every powerful kingdom of the Alliance had sent its best and brightest to train in the arcane arts under the watchful eye of the illustrious magi of Dalaran, the Kirin Tor’s ranks were top full of the scions of Lordaeron in particular. Such were the strength of ties between the two mighty kingdoms, and had been for generations, since Lordaeron’s very founding.

Now, Lordaeron was no more, felled by foulest betrayal—betrayal that came in the shape of a cursed blade driven through her very heart by her most beloved son. 

Now, Dalaran mourned. 

Glittering high society in all its eccentric glory had come to a halt, the mood in the city altogether too grim for revels. It was not merely out of respect for Lordaeron’s dead, however; there was also a growing sense of fear and uncertainty among the people of Dalaran, as well as shame that it was one of the Kirin Tor’s own who unleashed the ravening dead upon the world. Perhaps that was why, when a steady--if depressingly small--trickle of refugees clamored at the gates in search of safety within Dalaran's gleaming walls, they were welcomed with open arms, whether they held the gift of magic or no. 

Though Antonidas refused to speak of it, all knew the reason: Khelvar Thuzad's betrayal was the Order's great shame, a stain upon its honor, and the wizened archmage would not turn away the traitor's victims.

Business was understandably brisk at the storied Legerdemain, as Dalaran’s common folk sought to drown their sorrows and their fear in equal measure. Her elite, by contrast, shunned the public gathering spaces to sequester themselves within their townhomes and estates. Everywhere, mages gathered not for lavish fetes but in small, private salons, exchanging condolences and heated words in equal measure. Tension mounted as people across the city wondered what would come next; they wondered if the Kirin Tor’s prodigious magic was enough to protect them from the horrors of the north, and from one who was once of their own number. 

Everywhere, from the back alleys to the city's pubs and common rooms to the salons, arguments raged over the Kirin Tor's level of culpability in the plague, over the best course of action, over whether or not Dalaran possessed the resolve necessary to rally humanity against the traitorous Prince Arthas and his deadly Scourge, particularly in light of Gilneas’ stubborn isolationism. The future of the Alliance that Lordaeron championed was itself in grave doubt, with the death of the kingdom, and the fiercest arguments among Dalaran’s political elite were over how the Order should respond. Once-cherished colleagues grew at odds over these conflicts, and refused to speak with one another. Antonidas ordered the city guard's compliment doubled, after an uncharacteristically ugly exchange simmered over into an outright brawl that spilled out from a café onto the chic Violet Mile. It was not a comforting existence, living on the border of a ruined kingdom upended into chaos and death, with the only certainty to cling to being uncertainty.

But in Kael’s home, at least, sunshine yet prevailed despite all of the grief and turmoil. The vast Sunstrider demesne in Dalaran had for years been known colloquially as the Sunlit Court, and on that clear day it rather lived up to its common affection: the sun streamed through its enormous, brilliantly-hued stained-glass windows, scattering a rich, gold-tinged mosaic of light over intricately-embroidered carpets of silk-upon-silk.

Truthfully, it had always been a fine home, since Kael established it as scarcely more than a lad; he’d made it a place of erudite conversation and fine culture, of laughter, of robust debate and more than a bit of licentiousness. For years, it served as a small piece of Quel’Thalas in Dalaran, something quintessentially Thalassian in a multicultural city that owed as much to the ancient Arathi as to his own people, founded as it was in tandem. The intrigues of Silvermoon captured as much attention there as those of the Kirin Tor; and of the peers who joined Kael there at his invitation, most were like unto himself, having one foot in each world…and balancing upon this border with increasing difficulty as isolationism and distrust of humans gripped their homeland.

Despite what his father may have believed in their incessant quarrels, Kael’s thoughts were never far from his distant homeland. He meant to use his lofty position in Dalaran to her benefit, passing along morsels of intelligence to Rommath whenever possible. As such, by that cloudless day, the Sunlit Court had lost a few of its regular number to Kael’s edict to return home and quietly bolster the kingdom’s defenses, just in case—among them his favorite pair of magistrices, Capernian and Solarian, who’d returned to their duties within the Royal Magisterium, keeping their Quel’Thalas-bound colleagues abreast of goings on within the Kirin Tor. Kael sorely missed their presence in particular (and the dalliances that sometimes accompanied said presence, he privately admitted). But in spite of its dwindling population of guests, in spite of the overall mood of the city that housed it, there was still laughter and music and poetry within the Sunlit Court's brightly-frescoed walls. It was an oasis of calm and elegance in a time of fear and doubt, in keeping with the most cherished quel’dorei values.

That day, it served as a refuge for more than just Kael and his Thalassian compatriots. 

Lady Jaina Proudmoore sat upon a gilded couch covered in pillows of a myriad of jewel tones, bathed in the sunlight streaming through the largest window of Kael's sitting room. For the past several days, she’d been his guest within the Sunlit Court, generously granted the use of guest chambers set aside for visiting dignitaries, keeping counsel with him and members of his entourage, seeking comfort within those walls and finding it within the libraries and in quiet conversation.

Rumors swirled as a result, of course. Mages gossiped worse than country fishwives, and word travelled quickly in Dalaran—particularly a Dalaran on edge with little else to do but engage in speculation. But Kael’s offer of hospitality came with no strings attached, and held no ulterior motives. It was a gesture of kindness from a friend and nothing more; he would not have intruded upon her grief, at any rate, but for Antonidas’ quiet concerns that his star pupil was not eating properly or getting enough rest, wracked as she was by guilt and sorrow over what transpired in Lordaeron—over what her onetime intended had wrought—and caught up within the responsibilities she assumed over the refugee community.

That was not to say he did not care deeply for Jaina; Kael would have been lying had he claimed his motives were not at all driven by his affection for her, and Kael was no liar. It was affection—the deep platonic love for a friend—that drove him, with his old infatuation the furthest thing from his mind. This woman—intelligent, vivacious and clever, who’d befriended him despite her polite rebuff of his attentions those years ago, and with whom he’d spent so many wonderful times—was in pain, forced to confront a betrayal even deeper and fouler than that suffered by her traitorous prince's subjects. Anyone decent would have reached out to her in such a time. Antonidas need not have asked.

Still, she was beautiful even in her sorrow, and if Kael noticed as much, he kept it to himself for propriety’s sake. Instead, he resolved to make her as comfortable as possible, aiding her however he could and leaving standing orders for his people to do the same. It was runners from the Sunlit Court she employed to carry correspondence to Khaz Modan and Kul Tiras. Although he believed it rather a fruitless endeavor, to discourage the rumors he made certain that he was never seen alone with her for too long; this was hardly a difficult endeavor, for Jaina had befriended many in the Sunlit Court of her own accord, with her wit and charm and prodigious gifts for the arcane. The Thalassians were fond of her, and Kael was not the only one worried for her, or sharing her grief.

So that day they sat bathed in the sunlight of his private salon, joined by the Marquis Valanar, loyal and erstwhile captain of his personal royal guard detail. Kael was never without his longtime bodyguard of late, but in truth it had little to do with any fears he may have had for the safety of his person. Kael was, after all, a prodigiously gifted war mage and no mean swordsman to boot. But the good captain was handsome and virile, and a comfort to Kael in a time when such comfort was increasingly difficult come by. And he was discreet, which helped. Jaina was no fool and teased him about it, good-naturedly so, but there was little teasing in the salon that day.

Elven servants came bearing a chilled tea of apples and sunfruit, with plates of olives and cheese and warm flatbreads, all with their customary unobtrusive grace. Kael observed Jaina idly, noting how she only halfheartedly picked at her fine porcelain plate. "There's no war rationing in effect, my lady," Kael teased her gently, with a wry smile, which she returned if somewhat halfheartedly.

"I'm sorry, your highness. I don't mean to insult your hospitality," Jaina apologized. "It's just...I don't have much of an appetite lately. There's still so much to be done to prepare for the expedition west, I guess I've just got too much on my mind."

"Have you received word from home, then?" Kael asked.

Jaina nodded solemnly, and sighed heavily before taking a sip of her tea and answering. "My father's as stubborn as ever and still refuses to send the fleet. Mother's trying to reason with him, but it's like talking to a wall. If Tirasian ships are going to ferry our people to Kalimdor, it's going to have to happen without the Admiral's consent." Jaina straightened her shoulders, pursed her lips, and set her jaw. "Well, so be it. It wouldn't be the first time I defied a stubborn old man to do what's right."

"I understand. Believe me, I do," Kael said, as he absently swirled a piece of warm flatbread in spiced oil. "Bearing the weight of a people entire upon one's shoulders has a way of making old men rather stubborn, and reluctant to take needful action, it would seem."

Jaina's lips curled into a slight frown, but her summer-blue eyes were filled with nothing but empathy. In truth, it seemed that despite their myriad of differences, the foundation of their entire friendship lay upon bonding over their powerful and obstinate fathers. "Still nothing from High King Anasterian, then?" she asked gently.

"No, Jaina. I'm sorely vexed by it, and truly sorry for it, but I warned you that I could promise nothing in the way of material support. My father is content to strengthen our own borders and attempt to ride this out, for good or for ill," Kael sighed.

"Well, at least he's taking in refugees," Jaina offered.

"Even if only elves," Kael said bitterly. It had been something they quarreled over greatly in their last encounter, Anasterian's refusal to allow human refugees beyond the Greenwood, and the Thalassian Pass, where Quel'Thalas met Lordaeron at its border. Anasterian pled that his heart bled for the displaced humans of Lordaeron, but cited the need to look to his own people's needs first. Kael felt it was beneath his father to so cruelly deny anyone in need, and let him know as such--at length. With Lordaeron's tragic fall, Quel'Thalas was left as the most powerful kingdom in the north, and Kael believed that came with a certain amount of responsibility toward those in crisis.

Valanar had been circumspect to that point, content to pass the meal in silence as his prince conferred with a friend and colleague, but at that, he spoke up. "His majesty shows more compassion than Greymane," Valanar said, a tinge of acid to his tone. "Lady Azalea mentioned somewhat of our northerly neighbors a night or so past. It seems the King of Gilneas tires of the indigent masses pounding on his precious wall, and is simply rounding them up for arrest, elf, human, and dwarf alike."

Truthfully, it was a sore subject for Valanar. His own brother Keleseth, a priest of the Light, had barely escaped the City of Lordaeron alive. He’d fled in the company of his betrothed's family, and arrived safely in Quel'Thalas after a harrowing journey through the Scourge-occupied north. Valanar spoke little of it, but Kael knew that it wore on him, and even offered to release Valanar from his service so that he could join his family; the brothers had been close since they were children, being twins, even if their respective duties had seen them apart more often than not. But Valanar was adamant, steadfast in his duty to his prince, and would not be forsworn, not even for his beloved Keleseth. After so many betrayals, Valanar said, loyalty meant somewhat more. Kael cherished it beyond price.

"My father may be many things, but cruel isn't one of them," Kael said, placing a hand on Valanar's shoulder. "He's no Genn Greymane. Where his people are in need, he will provide for them." He glanced back over at Jaina then. "I'll try reasoning with him again. Perhaps I can persuade him to lend a ship or two, at the very least--it's past time Quel'Thalas healed these lingering wounds, and buried ill feelings, particularly with such a threat as the Scourge lurking at our very doorstep. It wasn't the people of Lordaeron who wronged us in the last war, and they shouldn't be the ones to suffer by our inaction."

"Thank you, your highness," Jaina breathed, with more than a little relief in her voice. "It would mean the world to me. And maybe if my father sees the High King is willing to help, he'd be willing to relent too--"

She was interrupted by a sudden, urgent knocking on the mahogany carved door to the salon. Kael looked up sharply, and Jaina and Valanar exchanged furtive, anxious glances with one another; Thalassian servants never disturbed in such a manner.

Valanar leapt to his feet and made for the door, with a trained knight's hand lightly resting on the spiraling hilt of the main gauche sheathed at his belt. "What is it?" he called out.

"A thousand pardons my Lord Brightblade, but a messenger just arrived from the Violet Citadel, wishing to speak with the prince. She was sent by Archmage Antonidas himself, and pleas urgency," a muffled voice said from the other side of the closed door, and Kael recognized it as that of Larian, his chamberlain. An older woman of middle years in long service to House Sunstrider, hers was a calm and steady presence at the Sunlit Court, and he had never known her to be given over to hysterics.

"Send her in, Valanar," Kael said.

Valanar relaxed his arm, and with an incline of his head, opened the door to the sitting room. Kael recognized the diminutive young woman who stood beside Larian at the threshold as no mere violet-liveried messenger, but one of Antonidas’ personal secretaries. The two couldn’t have looked more a contrast. Larian was tall and slender, with long, blue-black hair that fell to her waist. She was adorned in the colors of House Sunstrider, exquisite silk of sky blue and gold. 

By contrast, Nettibrenne Pyroglitter—Netti, as everyone called her—was a plump gnomish lass with a shock of rosy hair coiled tightly into a bun, and smart but sober robes of violet and gold. That it was one of Antonidas’ own closest aides and not one of the Citadel’s bevy of couriers was strange indeed. Kael swallowed hard, as Valanar ushered the young gnome into the salon, and Larian curtseyed with exquisite grace, taking her leave. 

“What is it, Netti? May I offer you some refreshment?” Kael asked, gesturing toward the light repast upon the table before him. 

“A thousand pardons for the intrusion, Prince Kael’thas, Lady Proudmoore,” she began gravely; there was an uncharacteristic severity to the normally vivacious gnome, and this troubled Kael deeply. “And forgive me for spurning your gracious hospitality, but I come on a matter of the utmost urgency and there is little time to observe the niceties of your station. His Excellency has asked to see you at the Citadel, your Highness. Immediately.” 

Netti reached into the folds of her violet robes, and with an oddly trembling hand, curtseyed gracefully with a carefully folded sheet of vellum extended before her. Even from across the room, Kael spied the seal of violet wax impressed upon the heavy parchment.

“What is this about?” Valanar asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“My apologies, Sir Brightblade, but his Excellency does not wish this matter spoken of outside the confines of the Citadel. He would not even tell me,” Netti admitted, still crouching on bended knee, holding out the missive.

Kael stood from his seat upon the divan and crossed the short distance between them, gently taking it from her outstretched grasp with one hand; with the other, he bid her rise. “Thank you, Netti,” he said. His brows furrowed in confusion as he stared down at the vellum, and the splatter of hardened wax inlaid by device etched in shimmering gold. It was the familiar all-seeing eye of the Kirin Tor as always, ever-watchful, but its rays were fashioned of keys, and it was crowned by a small estoile. This was not the seal of the Order itself, nor was it even the seal of its Grand Archmage—this was Antonidas’ personal heraldry, that of his family line, which stretched far as humans went, to the ancient Arathi clan-chiefs. The message was unmistakable to Kael, so versed in the subtleties of politics and symbolism: Antonidas was not commanding Kael’s presence as his superior within Dalaran’s hierarchy, it would seem, but asking it as peer and colleague. Such a notion would not have been troubling or at all unusual for the wizened human, for Antonidas too was canny and well-versed in politics, and even were he not the sort of man possessed of self-effacing humility who was never too enamored with the power of his title, neither did he wish to trouble Quel’Thalas overmuch by asserting his authority over her heir, in an organization viewed with growing distrust by her king.

But the nature of the overture coupled with Netti’s reluctance to speak of this urgent matter, and the secrecy of it…that disturbed Kael. And when he carefully broke the wax seal, unfolding the vellum, the words he silently read in Antonidas’ flowing hand did nothing to stem the growing sense of unease rising within him.

_Kael,_

_A small party of Thalassians has come bearing news from Silvermoon, and beg an audience with you. You know it’s never my wish to intrude upon Thalassian affairs, old friend, but I fear it is imperative that you come to the Citadel at once to grant it. Forgive me for penning such a dire missive so vaguely, but I believe you will understand once you are here. We await you in the Salon of the Hexad. Bring only those you implicitly trust, and please exercise discretion._

_A._

He lowered the parchment, folding it back up, and slipped it inside the interior pocket of his mantle of sapphire silk brocade. The Salon of the Hexad was an informal salon, more a parlor really, a private set of chambers high atop the Citadel’s largest spire to which only the Six held access. And Antonidas wished him to receive Thalassians there. Not here, in the Sunlit Court; nor in the Citadel’s vast audience chamber, where Antonidas himself received dignitaries and messengers and petitioners alike. No, Antonidas wished him to receive his countrymen in the Salon of the Hexad, a place that even the most elite mages of the Kirin Tor did not know existed, but for the Six who remained shrouded in mystery to all the Violet City.

Such a shroud of secrecy. Why? He wondered, suddenly, if his father were about something—something that would not sit well with the Convocation, who still had ears within the Sunlit Court. Perhaps Kael's entreaties for aid to Lordaeron’s human refugees did not, in fact, fall upon ears as deaf as he’d thought? Kael hadn’t missed that Antonidas did not, in fact, state in his missive precisely who these Thalassians were, who sought an audience. Neither did he state the manner of news they brought, however. What could be so dire as to demand such mystery? There must be a reason for it.

Kael swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as a desert, and he absently brushed his thumb the signet which rested upon his left hand. The Eye of the Hexad was his right as a member of the Six, and gained him access to such hidden places as the Salon, and the myriad ones more clandestine still. As his thumb brushed along grooves etched delicately into the large amethyst stone, he mulled Antonidas’ dire words over and over again in his mind. So be it, he thought. He glanced up; all who gathered were waiting upon his word.

“What is it, Kael?” Jaina asked, frowning.

“I’m asked to receive visitors from Quel’Thalas, at the Citadel,” Kael explained. “Curiously, Antonidas did not explain why. But it is my wish that you join me, my lady—and you as well, Val. I want people I trust beside me.” 

Jaina nodded. “Of course. I’m not certain how much help I can be in Thalassian business, but you can count on me,” she said.

“Are you certain, my prince?” Valanar asked delicately. “If this is a matter of state, or for the Kirin Tor, then perhaps I should--” 

“Are you suggesting I go unescorted on official business, Lord Captain?” Kael smiled at him, and Valanar returned it with a rather sheepish one of his own, and a faint hint of crimson creeping into the fellow’s bronze cheeks. 

Kael paused a moment, letting his gaze fall upon the gnome. She knew many of Antonidas’ secrets, and her discretion could be trusted, Kael believed. “Will you be joining us as well, Netti?”

Her already large eyes grew a bit wider, her small mouth opening a bit in startled surprise, but she clamped it shut, and nodded briskly.

Kael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, drawing upon the arcane energy within him, saturating the air surrounding them, and brushed the sigil on his ring with a whispered incantation. Energy swirled around him, warm and scintillating, tingling along his olive skin to make the fine hairs stand straight upon it. With calm and singular will, he pushed it gently outward with fluid, graceful turns of his hands, enveloping each of his companions by turns—Valanar, then Jaina, then Netti—and exhaled a single word.

When he opened his eyes, he was nearly blinded.

Sunlight, bright and dazzling, shone through the slender windows of the hidden Salon, just as it had in the sitting room of his estate, piercing his vision until he was forced to blink it calm. When his sight returned, he glanced around at the familiar confines of the cozy salon, with its warm wooden decor, plush couches, elven carpets, shelves covered in books and enchanted lanterns dim and merely decorative at this noon hour. It would not have been out of place in his own demesne, and it was why Kael had always liked it there; a refuge, perhaps, is how he’d always seen it. Unlike the other clandestine gathering places utilized by the Six, this one was meant to be something akin to a retreat, for quiet fellowship and not intrigues. 

All the stranger to Kael that Antonidas would ask him here, of all places, to hold an audience as High Prince of Quel'Thalas.

Antonidas sat by the merrily-burning fireplace, bathed in sunlight and wearing the gravest expression Kael had ever seen upon his wizened face. It was truth that the old archmage seemed older still, those days; the turmoil of recent weeks had aged them all, but none so much as he who held all of Dalaran in his care. He looked far frailer than Kael was used to, his human fragility all the more apparent to elven eyes. He’d taken Thuzad’s betrayal especially hard, as they were old comrades from the First War, and he now bore the disgraced necromancer’s sins as his own. During more than one conversation, he blamed himself: for letting his affection for a friend blind him to the signs of perfidy which were all too apparent in hindsight, and for letting him slip into the night. More than once, Kael had to tell Antonidas that he did not bear the burden alone, and that they’d been given little reason to distrust such a loyal member of the Six; the elite council was chosen in large part for their unimpeachable honor. 

Still, Thuzad’s seat in the Chamber of the Elect sat empty, and his Eye unclaimed. The Six had, in truth, been Five ever since his expulsion. It wore upon Antonidas, with every tale uttered by a refugee. That was certainly why he opened the doors of Dalaran to them, mage or no.

Kael took the armchair before him unasked, and Valanar stood protectively behind it. It was wholly unnecessary, of course, but Valanar was a knight first, through and through, and held his charge as sacred. Antonidas’ grim visage cracked a bit then, his eyes narrowing, and something of the old mischievous smile that Kael remembered from the man’s youth played at the corners of his thin mouth.

“So predictable, Kael,” Antonidas said, chuckling softly.

“We all have our vices, Anton,” Kael replied calmly. “What’s this about, at any rate? Who are these Thalassians who beg an audience, and where are they?”

The brief hint of amusement upon the Archmage’s face vanished as quickly as it appeared. He exhaled a long, hard breath, raising a wrinkled hand to his weary brow, before twisting it with a flick of the wrist. A decanter of blood-red wine appeared upon the small table between them, along with a filled glass.

“Refugees,” Antonidas said.

Kael’s body was coiled tighter than a spring, then, and he reached for a glass himself. Perhaps his speculation regarding his father was, indeed, correct. It was too much to hope for, and he did not dare permit it of himself. “Are they from Lordaeron, then?”

“It would appear so. The guard found them within the main teleportation chamber. One is a mage, it seems, which is how they gained entry. But they brought with them a wild tale upon their lips, and were thus detained until we could confirm the veracity of it,” Antonidas explained.

Jaina, who’d been content to remain silent until then—uncharacteristically so—stepped forward, and spoke. “These people are refugees, and you had them arrested?” she demanded hotly, her hands catching the arm of Antonidas’s chair in a vice grip. “Are you Greymane, now?”

At that, Kael heard Valanar snort somewhere above and behind.

Antonidas sighed deeply. “Jaina, I understand your pique. But we cannot be too careful. There are enemies everywhere, and we do not know how many of Thuzad’s cultists yet lurk among the populace, seeking to sow fear and anxiety, and exploit the cracks between us.”

Jaina was well fuming, her nostrils flaring. “You really have become Greymane,” she said in disgust, and let go of the chair with an exasperated sigh. “Has the world truly gone so mad? What have we become, to treat one another this way? The Cult has no need for infiltration, when you’re doing its work for it.”

“Sir,” Netti said. “Lady Proudmoore is right. This is shameful. The Kirin Tor is better than this.”  

"I wish to see these Thalassian refugees for myself," Kael said solemnly, rising to his feet. "I'll be the judge of their tale.”

“Good,” Antonidas said, breathing a sigh of visible relief. He reached up to grasp the gold pendant around his neck, and Kael felt an inrush of energy before him, for the briefest of moments.

A shimmering portal appeared within the narrow archway leading into the chamber, and the Thalassians in question emerged from it, escorted by a pair of guards. There were five of them, all told, three female and two male: a pair of young women with a startling resemblance to one another, blonde and dark-haired by turns; a third woman, darker and clad in the silver and cobalt of the Silver Hand, who held the hand of a young boy scarcely into adolescence. The other lad in priest’s robes looked startlingly familiar to Kael. All were disheveled by degrees, filthy and travel-worn. And the relief they all felt when they met his solemn gaze was palpable.

“Keleseth!” Valanar cried out.

The priest took a single step forward, trembling. Kael had never seen Valanar’s brother in such a state.

"My king,” he whispered hoarsely.

And then Keleseth fell to his knees before Kael, and clung weeping to the fine hem of his robes. Kael blinked hard in confusion, believing for a moment that he’d misheard the fellow. Before he could respond, however, Valanar rushed to his side, crouching to the floor beside him, and took him into his arms. “Brother! Are you well? What is the meaning of this?”

One by one, the others knelt before him, bowing their heads; even the young lad, who appeared dazed.

A squeaking gasp broke the silence.

“Oh, no. No no no,” Netti whispered softly.

“Your Majesty.” It was the paladin who spoke, her coppery hair disheveled, her tabard stained by blood and ichor and Light only knew what else. 

“What news do you bring, dame knight?” Kael asked.

Unshed tears stood in her luminous eyes, when she lifted them to her prince. “News of the Scourge. The High King is dead...Quel’Thalas has fallen,” she said.

Kael had always found it passing strange, the sorts of minutia the mind fixated upon in memory: the tart, citrus taste of sunfruit wine upon Rommath’s lips, the first time they ever kissed; the brisk wind whipping his mantle nearly off, when he was extended the invitation to the Six; the scent of lavender, when his mother collapsed for the first time among the palace gardens, and her mahogany skin grew so ashen and lifeless.

It would be the sunlight Kael remembered most about this day. Light, brilliant and warm, dancing along the rich oaken floor, leaving playful shadows in its wake. Antonidas, bathed in it, even as he lowered his head. The light of the sun, shining upon them all in a hollow benediction, a fair mockery.

Kael reached behind himself, groping blindly for the seat; he stumbled back into it, sinking down into the cushions, sinking down into the abyss.

The scent of cinnamon bloomed suddenly and filled his senses with warm spice; warmth spread through him, around him, above him.

Gentle wings, beating a steady rhythm in his long, pointed ears, a slow heartbeat.

A soft, keening cry echoed throughout his mind, his heart, his soul.

_Quel’Thalas has fallen._

Golden, fiery embers burned before his sight; brighter than the light of the sun, brighter than the shadow lurking at the edges of his consciousness. And it drifted through golden forests, fields of green, flowers in a rainbow of colors no human tongue had ever named. He recalled the Grand Athenaeum, with tomes and scrolls upon spiraling shelves that reached as far as his young eyes could see, as a lad. He recalled the Grand Bazaar, with its jewel-toned silks and the aroma of spices drifting through the air. And he recalled the majestic Grand Cathedral, and the way the rising sun always shone upon its mother-of-pearl dome like fire.

(Why was everything in Silvermoon always called “Grand”, he’d asked as a boy; and he remembered his father smiling down at him, that wry and impish smile he saw less and less in more recent years, saying it was because the quel’dorei believed everything _was_  grand, in Silvermoon.)

Then too, the sunlight reminded him of the way it always gleamed upon the shining armor of the Knights of the Eternal Sun as they paraded the Walk of Elders to mark triumphs. Anasterian, tall and regal and towering beside him, granting crowns of golden laurel to their heroes. Why he drifted so, thinking on when he was a lad, was a mystery to him; perhaps because in those tender years he believed his father the most powerful man on life, invincible, omniscient, above reproach. He remembered him as he always wished him to be, and not the flawed man with whom he quarreled. Not the man who perished, without knowing how much his son truly loved him; not the man who perished believing his son had abandoned him, had abandoned his birthright. Not the man who perished with so many others.

_The High King is dead._

Eternal Spring itself had at last succumbed to Remorseless Winter.

_Quel’Thalas has fallen._

Over and again, those words echoed in his numbed mind, until Kael shook his head, shaking his head, physically willing himself out of the daze which had fallen over him. It was replaced by an imperious fury come over him, and he rose slowly from his seat. He needed to feel something, anything—and indignation would do. "Is this the extent of Dalaran's hospitality, Antonidas? Treating refugees as criminals, and interrogating them?" Kael asked coldly. "Brother Keleseth, gentle lad and ladies, please, I ask you to return with me to the Sunlit Court. Rest and recover there, and we shall receive your testimony in due time—”

The blonde woman stirred then, startling him a moment. She was muttering incoherently, swaying on her knees, her dark skin ashen. “So many. So many...” she whispered, her bright green eyes hollow. Kael wondered just what that poor lass had seen, to make her eyes so haunted. “Like locusts...”

Her dark-haired counterpart—and Kael believed they were sisters, the resemblance was too uncanny—wrapped her arms about her tightly. “Shh, Andra. Be still,” she said softly, stroking her golden hair.

Valanar turned to Kael; he’d risen at some point, and Keleseth was clinging to him, sobbing like a brokenhearted child. “My king—” 

“Valanar Brightblade, do not call me that,” Kael cut in sharply, his jaw clenched tightly. The word was like a dagger plunged into his heart every time they uttered it. “I am not _your king_. I wear neither winged crown nor signet. You will address me as prince—all of you. If we have lost Quel’Thalas, we will not lose who we are, or our way.” 

Valanar’s eyes grew hard as agates behind their azure glow, but he lowered his head obediently. “As you wish, my prince. I only mean to say that you are right, and that my brother and the Kirendils have suffered grievously and need time to grieve. They are dear to me, as we have ties of near-kin. Can we not make introductions and speak of this tragedy once they have rested?”

His captain was bent on saving Kael from himself, it would seem. He relaxed his jaw then, and turned to Antonidas. “We shall take our leave of you, Antonidas,” he said.

Antonidas stared long and hard at him, his dark eyes standing with unshed tears. Surely he had noted the use of his full name, and not the familiar affection. Kael certainly hoped he did. “I’m sorry, Kael’thas,” the old archmage sighed.

“So am I,” Kael replied. 

Kael did not trust his own magic then, and so it was Jaina who teleported them all back to the refuge of the Sunlit Court; and it was Netti who spoke at length with Larian, informing the chamberlain of what was needful, and the household set to task. Rooms were set aside, clothing gathered, bathing attendants summoned from every corner of the estate, the kitchens a flurry of activity. And as they set to work, the news spread. Word always traveled fast in the Court, even at the best of times. It was a credit to their quintessentially Thalassian pride and hospitality, however, that they remained steadfast and professional. Kael suspected that caring for this poor, forlorn family was their way of coping with the enormity of what they all faced.

The woeful tale came in starts and hushed, tearful words that night, once the Thalassian refugees were bathed and fed and had taken some measure of rest. The entirety of the Sunlit Court, all who yet remained, had gathered within the large, airy inner courtyard to hear what had transpired. And the funerary pall that had fallen over Dalaran was nothing like that which draped the Sunlit Court that night. The halls and gardens seemed that much more empty, somehow. There was an eerie silence, thick and impenetrable, which hung over the grounds.  He looked about the ashen faces illumined by enchanted lantern hovering in the air. Their numbers were perilously few, Kael thought grimly to himself. How many who had withdrawn to Quel’Thalas yet lived? How many death warrants had he signed, when he gave them their leave? Those who remained…they wished to remain with one another, that was clear. They clung to each other, as if for life itself; life in the face of so much death.

Kael learned from Valanar that the Kirendil family—what was left of it—consisted of the twins Leilatha and Leilandra, and their younger brother, the boy Aranthir. It was not a name unfamiliar to Kael, for theirs was an ancient and distinguished Thalassian house whose ancestral lands consisted of Shalandis Isle, in southern Eversong, and were known for their particular devotion to the Church of the Holy Light, counting many high ranking priests in their line. Lady Leilatha was one such priest, following in her mother Lady Aethalyste’s footsteps; this is how she made Keleseth’s acquaintance. And though she was his betrothed, Kael suspected somewhat between her and the Lady Narantha as well, from how the woman doted upon her. It was not uncommon among their people, truth be told, even if they pretended somewhat else to save face. Sunstrike was the name of Narantha's house, and she was a paladin of the Silver Hand who’d made it out of Lordaeron City before the order was slaughtered. Lord Eilandar Kirendil was not so fortunate, however. He’d perished in Lordaeron in defense of its cathedral, along with his wife, the matriarch of the family, High Priestess Aethalyste.

In the courtyard that night, Kael and the others listened to the group as they described their harrowing tale of survival. It was Narantha’s bravery and prodigious skill with the blade which kept Keleseth and Leilatha safe during their desperate flight from Lordaeron; they reunited with Leilandra and Aranthir in Silvermoon, along with their eldest brother Tenris. But they had not long dwelled within the safety of the gleaming city’s walls, before the Scourge followed them there.

The extent of the slaughter, the sheer brutality of the atrocities…this was what shook Kael to the core. Leilatha spoke with a calm born of numbness of how they became separated from Narantha in the chaos, slipping and falling on streets covered in blood and vitals. Monstrosities made of corpses sewn together tore through flesh with barbed hooks. Children lay dead next to their parents, and raised as fodder along with them. At this, an anguished cry echoed in the night air, and Kael saw a man collapse to the terracotta stone, weeping into the gown of the woman beside. Kael knew the man as one of the Court's enchanters, who always had a kind word for children, having had none of his own, and often brought toys from a gnomish shop in the city for them. The woman who comforted him at last led him back inside, accompanied by another mage who’d stood by.

Such were his people. Kael could not fault him; could not fault any of them. 

Yet more tears fell, when Leilandra recounted how Tenris died: Tenris, the gentle lad with a song always upon his lips, the eldest son, the outcast black sheep who had disgraced the House and run off to become a minstrel…he’d drawn away a pack of ravening ghouls, luring them away so that his siblings could escape. Aranthir hid beneath a fallen bookshelf, which was the only reason he yet lived. Narantha found him there, and together the lot of them fled to the Isle of Quel’Danas. What transpired there, they did not know; only that they sought sanctuary at the massive Magister’s Terrace, the palatial estate which served as the home of the Royal Magisterium, and were barricaded inside while High King Anasterian, the Grand Magistrix Aelyndra, and what seemed the entirety of the Convocation of Silvermoon descended upon the Sunwell to defend it.

What they did know, after they emerged after that terrible night, was that the defense failed. And Rommath—Kael’s beloved Rommath, now acting Grand Magister with the death of his mother—had sent Leilandra here, to Dalaran, with news of what transpired, because she was the highest ranking Magistrix left alive, and not one of her family was allowing her to come alone.

Rommath had sent them here to Kael, to bring him back.

“Come home, my prince,” Leilandra said softly, in the end and through the last of her tears. “We need you.”

Kael retired to his study by his lonesome. Valanar would pass the evening with his family, and Kael would never have thought to gainsay it. Theirs had been a terrifying ordeal by any measure, and they needed one another dearly. He wished to be alone with his darkening thoughts, at any rate.

He should have counted on the soft knock on the door, however.

“Come in,” he sighed.

The door opened, and Jaina stood there behind it. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to see anyone. But I didn’t think you should be alone, either,” she said quietly.

Kael took the measure of her there, standing at the threshold, arms wrapped about her midriff. She was pale, her eyes red and swollen, and he wondered then how much of this was about her need to comfort a friend. “Thank you, Jaina. It means a great deal that you thought of me,” he said, rising from his writing desk to pour her a chalice of water from the side table. She gently shook her head, waving it off.

“Thanks, but I just wanted to see how you were holding up, all things considered,” she said. “You needn’t be so formal.”

Kael smiled a bit sheepishly. “Force of habit, I suppose. These things are deeply ingrained.” He paused then, lowering his eyes upon some speck of dust upon the surface. “As to your question? Truthfully, I do not know. I feel…empty, numb. Perhaps the truth of it has not rung clarion to me as yet. Ask me tomorrow when I wake, and I discover it was not some fever dream.”

He spoke true, and from his heart then. It was always such, with those he cared for especially. It was all so surreal to him, and he’d scarce had time to consider it. The sheer magnitude of what transpired was beyond even his ken. 

All his life, Kael had been prepared to become High King one day. It was what his parents imparted to him, as their sole heir. And always, it had been some distant aim--even after the turmoil of the Second War, even as his father advanced in age, Kael lived with the knowledge that it would be a day long in the future, the day when he would succeed him. Perhaps after he’d wed, and begotten heirs of his own. Quel’Thalas would flourish, as it had for thousands of years, under his careful stewardship, and with his unique insight having spent decades living in Dalaran in service to the Kirin Tor, he would usher in a new understanding, strengthening alliances with the human kingdoms of Lordaeron’s alliance.

Now, he was the last of his storied line, and those dreams were turned to ash. Now, his father lay dead, and the last words they'd exchanged had been bitter and cruel. Now, the streets in the city of his birth ran crimson slick with the blood of his people, while he sat comfortably half a continent away in a manicured garden, sipping wine and concerning himself with pointless intrigues. Kael’thas Sunstrider, the greatest war mage of his generation, was nowhere near his people when they needed him most, where his prodigious and well-honed skills could have made the most difference. How many could he have saved? Would the Elfgates have fallen, were his magic used to strengthen them? Would Tenris Kirendil have had to give his life to save his family, if the Scourge had been turned from Silvermoon’s gates? Would his beloved Rommath--his first love, his boon companion since childhood--had been orphaned, if Kael were there by the Grand Magistrix’s side? Would his father have fallen to that cursed blade, if Kael had been fighting alongside him, defending him and the Sunwell and all they held dear with everything he was, as he should have been, if he truly cared for them and did not merely speak empty platitudes in their endless quarrels?

Anasterian was right. He was right, by the Light of the Sun, and now he was dead. 

The first tears began to fall from Kael’s eyes, streaking down his tawny olive cheeks, staining his high silk collar. He buried his face in trembling hands, and turned from Jaina, overwhelmed by a profound sense of shame. His father was right. Right, and dead, and it was all his fault.

But then he felt warm, soft arms circle around him from behind; Jaina had crossed the distance between them, and he felt her cheek rest against his back. 

“I’m so sorry, Kael. I don’t have words, I…my heart grieves for you, more than I can say,” she said softly. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling. But you needn’t go through it alone.”

Jaina’s compassion knew no bounds; it was one of the many reasons he was so fond of her, still. He felt it in the warmth of her embrace, offered freely and without a thought for propriety. And it broke down what remained of that dam erected in Thalassian pride and noble demeanor, the quel’dorei compulsion to save face and never show weakness. He turned within the circle of her arms, and clung to her, weeping into her hair like a broken-hearted child.

“Why?” he sobbed, a child’s question truly, the first and most difficult of all.

“I wish I had a reason. I don’t, and I’m sorry. I suppose we’re all stumbling together in the dark. But tell me what you wish of me, and it’ll be done. I swear it. Whatever you need. It’s the least I can do, when—” 

Kael started suddenly, and pulled away from her, sniffing hard and grasping her firmly by the shoulders. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this, Jaina. This was no more your fault than the fall of his own kingdom. What he wrought, he wrought by his will alone. You are blameless.”

“But this never would have happened if I’d stopped him,” Jaina argued, shaking in his grasp, her jaw clenched hard. “If I’d only stopped him in Stratholme, he never would have followed that dreadlord to Northrend. He never would have found that damned blade, and lost himself to it. It’s all my fault, Kael’thas. Your people died, because I was too weak and callow to stop him!”

“You are blameless!” he repeated sharply, his voice cracking as he did, trembling. By the Sun, he was tired. He had never felt so tired in all his life. “I beg you Jaina, do not take that monster’s sins as your own. He did not do this because you did not love him enough; he did not betray his kingdom and murder his father and mine because you left him. Don’t even entertain the absurdity. I certainly won’t, and neither will anyone of conscience.”

Jaina opened her mouth for another retort, but he vigorously shook his head.

“Please, Jaina,” Kael said, his voice scarcely more than a ragged breath. “I don’t blame you. I never will. He was a fool and a coward. Not you. Don’t cover yourself with his shame. It’s a foul thing, a cruel thing, and I couldn’t bear it.”

Wordlessly, she nodded, and pulled him back into her arms. And they stood there holding each other for a long time, united in the most painful manner of grief. Sorrow for those they loved and lost; Jaina may have been human, but she had come to know so many Thalassians in Dalaran. He wept, and she stroked his hair, silently, letting her gentle touch say what words could not.

“Come with us, Kael. Across the sea, to Kalimdor,” she said, at last. “Bring those survivors you can. The Prophet was right. He’s been right all along, and everyone’s been too blind and stubborn to listen. There’s nothing left here for us now.”

Kael released her, and sighed deeply. It was a perfectly sensible offer, truly—he could see no fault in it, and the quel’dorei were known for their navigational skill and seamanship, as much as the humans of Kul Tiras. It would a beneficial arrangement for them both.

But Kael had already abandoned his homeland once; abandoned it to be devoured, and he could not. He _would_  not do it a second time. Even were there naught left but ashes and ruin. What remained of Quel’Thalas would not be left to the Scourge, or filthy cultists. He would wipe them from the land in blood and fire, and swore this silently upon the Ashes of Al’ar.

_Come home, my prince. We need you._

Kael was not tempted otherwise, even for a moment.

“It is a generous offer, my lady, but I am afraid I must decline. I will leave it to what remains of my people to decide their own fate. I am not their High King, and I will not compel them to risk their lives on a perilous journey if they do not wish it, nor will I compel them to stay in the North. But my own fate lies with Quel’Thalas, as it should have been. Now, more than ever. I can do no less for her. Please understand,” he said. 

Jaina’s face fell; even then, Kael marveled at how little she held in reserve, wearing her heart so upon her sleeve. “Alright. But tell them there’s a place for them in the West. Any of them—children, the elderly and infirm, anyone at all. If they wish to leave, they can join us, no questions asked. Promise me this much, at least?”

It was difficult seeing much light in such overwhelming darkness, but Jaina held it in the palm of her outstretched hand. And Kael would never forget her kindness for the rest of his days. There were many kinds of love, he was reminded that night—and though she did not return his in kind, what she gave to him was a kind sorely needed, and he would forever be grateful to her for it.

Quel’dorei had long memories.

“I will,” Kael promised her. He gently took her hands within his own, clasping them tightly. “Thank you, Jaina. Sincerely.”

Jaina smiled at him. “Good. We’re in the Refugee’s Quarter, at the Star’s Descent. If I’m not there, tell them to ask after Ser Evey. She’s helping me organize the expedition,” she said.

“Very well,” Kael said, returning her smile.

Jaina made him a teasing little curtsey, and vanished with a surge of energy, engulfed in a flash of light.

True to his word, Jaina’s invitation was spread the next day, throughout the estate, to those few remaining there.

Not a single soul in the Sunlit Court took it. Kael was returning to Quel’Thalas, and the lot of them were coming with him. Kael would see to his people, would grieve with them and comfort him and at last be the prince he was always meant to be.

Even were it too late.

After a brief conference, it was decided the Magister’s Terrace was the safest and most sensible destination for them in Quel’Thalas. It was there, Valanar said, that Rommath had been organizing the survivors, alongside the acting Ranger-General, Lor’themar Theron, and his second Halduron Brightwing. Indeed, Valanar’s counsel was invaluable during those short few days, and he aided Kael admirably in carrying out orders. 

And a curious thing happened, then; as the Thalassian delegation prepared to leave the Sunlit Court behind, a steady stream of quel’dorei turned up at its gates, bearing not merely their belongings, but also foodstuffs, stores of cloth and herbs, sacks full of enchanter’s dust, gold and mithril and fine arms, all manner of supplies. Some were faces Kael had scarce seen within the halls of the Court; some were quel’dorei who had been born there in the Violet City and had never set foot in Quel’Thalas but for the traditional pilgrimage to the Sunwell. They came, too, with eyes full of tears and hearts full of love and conviction. And all came for the same purpose.

They wished to follow Kael home.

A massive portal had been conjured in the entryway, to accommodate them all. Kael saw each of them through personally, receiving them warmly, welcoming them home. The days were long, terribly long, but he did not waver. He had a responsibility to fulfill. 

Word of this exodus had reached the Violet Citadel before too long. Despite Antonidas’ distinct policy of non-interference in Thalassian affairs, the Kirin Tor had eyes and ears everywhere, and Dalaran was not so large a city, particularly not now. Word travelled as quickly as ever. Upon the third day, the Archmagus himself came alone, to see it with his own eyes.

“Don’t do this, Kael.”

Antonidas stood within the shadow of the foyer.

“Do you command me, Anton, in my own house?” Kael asked, quirking a feathery brow.

“No. I ask you as a colleague, as a friend. This is absolute madness. Nothing but ruin and death awaits them there.” 

Kael raised his hands before them both, with slow and graceful deliberation, and slid the Eye signet from his finger; he held it in his upturned fist for a long moment. “My father was right. I should have done this long ago. I only pray his soul forgives me, may it somehow rest if trapped in that foul blade.” 

“Old friend, I know you’re grieving. Light knows I do. And all Dalaran grieves for our quel’dorei brethren. But Dalaran is all that remains, surely you must understand! The Kirin Tor is the only power left in the North with the might to defy Prince Arthas and his Scourge. The Alliance—”

“The Alliance we knew died with Terenas Menethil,” Kael said coldly, his fist clenching tighter around the Eye. “It died with my father. And it fair died when Greymane built his wall, if we’re to be honest with one another. What manner of Alliance can be salvaged from it remains to be seen, and if I am needed for such work, then so be it. I will gladly drive the ancestral blade of my house through that murderer’s black heart myself, by whichever name to which I must swear fealty. Vengeance will be mine, I promise you that. But I must see to my people first. They need me more than you do. They always have, and I was too blind and enamored with my position here to see it.” 

Antonidas stiffened, bristling, and he shook his head fiercely, sending his long, pointed beard to shaking with it. “We cannot afford these divisions, Kael. Our numbers are dwindling—between Jaina losing all sense and chasing shadows across the damned Maelstrom, and now you—we cannot afford to lose so many of our best and brightest, not when we need them most!” 

“As Quel’Thalas did?” Kael cried with an indignant shout. He clamped his eyes shut, breathing hard, forcing the anger back down by sheer force of will. He opened them with a weary sigh, rubbing his still-clenched fist against his brow.

“You’ve not been sleeping, have you?”

“Not especially.”

Antonidas breathed a heavy sigh of his own. “At the very least, wait for a moment. Don’t make a decision of such import on so little rest.”

“My people need me. Do what you must, Anton, for yours. Farewell.”

Kael opened his fist, and let the signet fall to the violet tiles, before turning on his heel, and striding through the portal.

**Author's Note:**

> Netti belongs to @dandelionofthanatos on tumblr.


End file.
